


hail, saint patrick

by elegia (starcrawler)



Series: The Moon and the Melodies [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:07:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22839037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcrawler/pseuds/elegia
Summary: March, 1956:Patrick Hockstetter doesn't like people. He would if they are people, which they aren't, and that makes all the difference.
Series: The Moon and the Melodies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1641910
Kudos: 10





	hail, saint patrick

**Author's Note:**

> I was suddenly inspired to write this when I started learning about Hitler in my Modern German History class. I'd like to think my writing has improved vastly since I began writing _Sea, Swallow Me,_ which you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22191052/chapters/52979974), if you like what you just read.
> 
> Please let me know any flaws you find in my writing, and any suggestions to make me a better writer. Thanks for reading and being so supportive!

* * *

“If it takes a little myth and ritual to get us through a night that seems endless, who among us cannot sympathize and understand?”

\- Carl Sagan, _Cosmos_

# hail, saint patrick

1

_Derry, 1956_

That loud-mouthed kid with the glasses was just too loud, and Patrick Hockstetter just wanted to make it stop.

But the rules of the game were pretty simple: do what you want, but don’t get caught. You get caught and you’re dead meat, buddy. His brother had been an easy one. It was quick and simple, just a pillow over his face and the little bomb stopped ticking, stopped making so much daggum _noise,_ and stopped taking away _his_ time. This one wouldn’t be so simple.

Sometimes, he wondered if this was some sort of test or something, and he was supposed to fight his way out of it, because everything else seemed to have it a whole lot better than he did, since Henry lived pretty close to school and Belch had his old man and Victor, well, he had his own bike. Ooh-la-la, Victor.

Meanwhile, he had to take the school bus with the rest of them, and it was almost sad that God thought these things could fool him, but he was just a bit too smart for that. How the hell was a kid supposed to sound like a walking answering machine that just had too much coffee, with the face that just begged to be punched into new and exciting shapes? Was he supposed to believe a guy like Adolf Hitler used to walk the Earth? Things didn’t work like that, God dearest. Nobody acted like that. Nobody acted like he did.

_How to survive on the school bus, here with your host, Mr. Hockstetter._

_Yes, thank you Dan, skies are nice and calm today, perfect for kite-flying and insect-hunting. Traffic jam down on the 280, a pile-up with three dead and eight injured. Mr. Hockstetter recommends drivers to not rubberneck, as it can cause slowdowns and even more accidents. And here with “How to Survive on the School Bus,” is tip numero uno: distract yourself._

The wallet he had been working on was starting to take shape, but unfortunately duct tape was not something he always carried on hand, so distracting himself with making it wasn’t a real possibility. Besides, the bus moved too much, anyway. He’d just mess up the stitching. Maybe…there was a fly sticking onto the window right next to the big-mouthed kid. If he could just get his ruler…

_Ah, very logical, Mr. Hockstetter. That sure seems to do the trick, doesn’t it? Almost makes you forget about those little bastards. What’s your second tip?_

_Yes, you should try it yourself sometime, Dan. Really helps block out the sound. What’s even better is tip number two: singing._

_Singing?_

_That’s right, singing._

He hummed “Ain’t That a Shame” because he heard his mom playing it on the radio the other day, and he had found the tune rather pleasant, as he tightened his grip on his ruler, the trusty wooden thing that was permanently stained black and red on some different parts because of what he used it for. Other kids, the girls especially, seemed to find it gross. He didn’t mind.

The fly was moving, slowly, occasionally, like it didn’t know that its seconds were numbered, like the greatest predator the housefly had ever faced off against was not just one seat ahead, watching it as it crawled, slowly, patiently. Tip tap tap, its legs, no wider than human hairs, tread across the smooth surface of the glass. Tip tap tap. Tip tap tap.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beverly Marsh stare at him. He had shown her his collection last week and she had been far from impressed. Well, her opinion was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, as was everyone else’s. He couldn’t afford to lose track of his target.

Arm tense, like the Great Bambino, held back, untapped potential, unlimited energy…

_And you have another tip, Mr. Hockstetter, before we end off? The next program’s coming on in three minutes._

_Oh, they can wait. They always do. And that’s right, Dan. Tip three’s pretty simple. Just do it._

“You’re learning the _square knot_ in Boy Scouts? Sweet Ike! Doesn’t tying the square knot mean you’re square, too? Ha-ha! Wacka-wacka-wacka!”

_Just do it?_

_Just do it._

WHAM!

The loud-mouthed kid with the glasses yelped as the startled kyke beside him pinched his arm, but that was just collateral. What mattered was the fly.

He had smashed too hard, and the thing was completely smeared against the window. It had been satisfying, don’t get him wrong, but by God was that disappointing. It was nice, however, feeling the crunchy skeleton just shatter under the force of the ruler, the eyes pop out and cover the wood with a coat of red, black, and green, the organs popping with the force of a grape. It was nice, but it would have been nicer if he had something left to scrape off, a little something for the pencil box.

_Ah, well, we’ll get them next time, Dan. Thanks for having me._

_Thank you for coming, Mr. Hockstetter. Saint Patrick, everyone. He’s a student at Derry Elementary and he’s got a wicked sense of humor. And, he’s the only one who matters. And now with our next guest…_

“Hey, kid.” He turned to look at the loud-mouthed kid with the glasses. “What’d you do that for?”

He didn’t know if this was a test, or just something he could ignore, so he chose not to answer. He just stared at the loud-mouthed kid with the glasses for a while, took in his face, his weirdly-spaced eyes, his hooked nose. The kid started squirming after a while, like they always did, and that confirmed in Patrick’s mind that the loud-mouthed kid with the glasses wasn’t like himself; he wasn’t real, either.

“Kid, you hear what I said?”

_“Shut up, Richie. That’s Patrick Hockstetter.”_

_“That’s_ Patrick Hockstetter?”

But he was already turning around, because the show was over and some other guest was on, and he suddenly found himself glad, because his tips had actually paid off, and they had indeed distracted him from the prison that was the schoolbus, because they were nearing his stop. Slowing, slowing, stop. The tires and the axle made that sound that he had grown to tolerate.

The ruler slipped back into his backpack, and he got off, humming something even he didn’t know to himself, and he saw all the others inch away from him as he passed them by in the aisle, and he felt a sense of supreme satisfaction, because wasn’t that simply proof? Wasn’t it proof that he wasn’t like them?

And they suddenly all stood up and then knelt, on their seats or on the floor, the bus driver included, and he walked past them all with a smirk on his face, the sandwich he was about to make already on his mind, as they all chanted,

_“Hail, Saint Patrick._

_Hail, Saint Patrick._

## hail, saint patrick."


End file.
